


Epilogue: Song of Solomon

by Weesageechak



Series: Bleed Into Me [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Asshole Theo, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Rape Aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 11:50:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6802600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weesageechak/pseuds/Weesageechak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a brief epilogue to Bleed Into Me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epilogue: Song of Solomon

**Author's Note:**

> I picked this particular title simply because after all the gloom, silence and emptiness of Bleed Into Me, this short fic is meant as an ode to being alive, a celebration of all kinds of beauty -- and, of course, a declaration of love to --
> 
> \- but you'll have to read for yourself.

 

" By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth:

I sought him, but I found him not.

I will rise now, and go about the city in the streets,

and in the broad ways I will seek him whom my soul loveth:

I sought him, but I found him not."

(Song of Solomon, KJV, 3:1-2)

  

 

 

When the car rolls into the parking lot and pulls into a spot right in front of the Cafe, people can’t help but stare.

It’s one of those vintage cars but in neat condition, of a red that you just don’t see on cars anymore nowadays.

And then this dude gets out and two girls who are exiting the Café at this moment, they stop and just gape at him for a few seconds.

The guy looks so undeniably James-Dean drop-dead-gorgeous with his blue jeans, white t-shirt, short necklace and vintage dark red leather jacket, straight-cut and expensive looking.

He slams his car door shut, lets the keys rotate nonchalantly around his index finger for a second and smirks, aware of everyone’s eyes on him – and there’s quite a few people in the parking lot, too, getting into or out of their cars, or just hanging around, it’s such lovely summer’s day, rather on the hot side maybe, but with a light and refreshing breeze that just makes you want to go outside, take your head back into your neck, close your eyes and enjoy just being alive for a moment.

The dude slides his keys into the back pocket of his jeans, takes a pair of sunglasses out of his jacket and puts them on, crooked smile on his face still, like he’s used to this reaction, like he just shrugs it off wherever he goes because, yes.

He’s special.

And he knows it, too.

The sight of this guy in front of his old-time car, on the black asphalt that broke in the relentless sun, patches of dry grass coming through the cracks a few inches away from where his white Converse connect with the grey ground – it’s perfect.

Maybe that’s why they’re all staring, too.

Because it’s like an anachronism, like he doesn’t really belong here, but to a different time, way back.

Like a hole opened up here in this spot in 1957 and this dude with his car, they just dropped right through and landed in late July of 2016, the two summers, although almost sixty years apart, wrapped into this single person.

Then he starts walking and the spell is broken, for now.

Everyone inhales and, relieved, find that they can avert their gaze once again, but when they leave the scene, pull out onto the street or go back into their shops, it’s with a secret smile because _they saw_.

It’s like they glimpsed infinity, there, in an L.A. parking lot near the Pinkberry and Dunkin’ Donuts and the moment, that sight, it stays with them.

The guy, however, whether he’s aware of the exact effect he’s having on people or not, has entered a shop to the right of the donut place, the Cafe called _The Frothy Bin: Serving Milkshakes and Pasta Since 2015_. He’d stopped for a moment there, too, glancing up at the ridiculous name and the shape of a laughing neon pink milkshake with a yellow-striped straw in it shouting in a huge white speech bubble _Come in for a slurp, folks!_

Then he’d shaken his head, grinning to himself, and had pushed the door open.

It’s cool and light inside.

The counter and, a little off to the left, booths and tables, are in the same color scheme as is the logo outside, pink and yellow with blue lettering. The floor, oddly, is brown and mustard, almost as if the whole place had been decorated by two different people who hadn’t known of each other – or trying to get back at each other. There’s a few people sitting in the booths and a comfortable murmur of voices is filling the interior of the Cafe.

Over the radio, Eric Clapton is singing, _Strange brew, Kill what's inside of you_.

So the guy, okay?

He walks up to the counter and takes off his sunglasses. There’s a girl there, behind the register, with a blond ponytail and a pretty face and, catching a customer stepping up, she raises her head, goes, “Welcome to the Frothy Bin, what can I – er,” but then she blushes wildly.

He brown eyes stare right into his blue ones and she seems at a loss for words for a second.

Then, remembering that she got a job to do here, “Can I – I get for you, er, what can I get for you?”

Cheeks turning crimson at her poor performance, but the guy – well, again, let’s just say, he’s used to this. Her eyes quickly flick down to his buff chest, muscles clearly visible because the white shirt is tight fitting and low-cut.

 _She's a witch of trouble in electric blue,_  
_In her own mad mind she's in love with you._  
_With you._  
_Now what you gonna do?_

He followed her gaze.

Knows exactly what she’s thinking, too, but is too well-behaved, too polite and gentlemanly altogether to touch on it in any way. So he says, “I like Clapton,” and nods up to the speakers. And then, smug grin on his lips, “Do you?”

She’s still very red around the cheeks and stutters, “Er, yes. Yeah, cool.”

“You never even heard of him, am I right?”

“No – no I have heard of him.”

“Layla by Clapton, especially – great song,” he’s saying now, almost thoughtfully. “And I’ll have a milkshake.”

 _She's some kind of demon messing in the glue._  
_If you don't watch out it'll stick to you._  
_To you._  
_What kind of fool are you?_

 “Chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, apple, banana?” she says, visibly relieved that she’s treading on familiar ground again now and determined to not appear so stupid anymore.

Aw, poor girl.

It’s a little painful to watch, in all honesty. Especially because, when he says “Vanilla,” and smiles at her with pearly white teeth, all her efforts to appear calm go right out the window again.

“Tall, Grande, or-”

“Tall.”

“F-for here or to go?”

“To go, please.”

She keys a few numbers into her register, taking longer than usual, but – we will not linger on that, she’s already mortified.

“That’ll be 3,50 dollars.”

The guy’s a baller.

He has reached into his back pocket and is counting a few bills out of a simple brown leather wallet into his hand now and there seems to be a lot more in there, like _a lot_. Then he reaches over to her, bills tucked between his index and middle finger.

“The rest is for you.”

“Oh, er – thanks,” the girl goes and takes the money with a hand that’s trembling just a little bit.

“So,” he says while she’s putting the money down into the register and shoving the tip into her pocket clumsily.

_Strange brew... strange.... Strange brew...._

“I’m not from Los Angeles, is there anything to do around here, in this part of town?”

“Er, yeah, lots,” she turns around and quickly steps up to the swinging doors behind her, pushes it open and yells into the room,

“Stiles? One tall vanilla milkshake to go!”

Then, stepping swiftly up to the counter again so as not to lose even a second with her customer, she starts listing sights and bars and discotheques.

The guy, however, seems only vaguely interested. He has put his hands into his pockets and is glancing at the door, waiting for her to take a breath so he can say, “Odd, I’ve never seen a place that doesn’t prepare coffee and milkshakes right behind the counter.”

“Oh, that’s because it’s also a restaurant and all the food and beverages are just prepared in the kitchen. Er, if you ever care for pasta, we have, like, the _best_ spaghetti.”

He gives her a sweet smile, says, “Thanks for the hint. If I’m ever around again.”

“Oh, er – you’re not from here?”

“No.”

“Where are you from?”

Smile widening, “Beacon Hills. You wouldn’t know it, it’s a small town up North.”

“Oh really?” And she’s eyeballing him, a look of surprise on her face.

“Stiles is from there, too – my co-worker, you know? He keeps mentioning how boring it is up there and, like, totally _not_ worth visiting. Er, sorry,” and she laughs nervously.

“No offense taken,” he says chuckling. “It really is a boring place. I just had to get out of there, so. I think I might share – Stiles’ feeling.”

The way he says his name, too, with a little hesitation, like he’s not sure whether he heard it correctly, like he wants to go, _What’s a Stiles? Is that the dude in the kitchen?_ , but knows it wouldn’t be proper.

It’s very well done.

“Are you studying here?”

And he nods, acknowledging her eager interest with this nonchalance that seems to be an inherent part of his character.

Before she can ask anything else, a hand appears in a small window to the right.

“Mine?” he says after a few seconds during which she just stares at him, and her cheeks flush an even deeper shade of red. She turns around then, quickly walks over, reaching for the to-go cup.

“Yeah, sorry, I’m a little under the weather today, I’m not always like this.”

Another nervous laugh and she’s back again with him, extending her arm.

He takes the cup from her.

“Thanks. It is really hot outside, true, but, to tell you the truth, I’m enjoying it. Even though it seems cruel to be keeping people in the kitchen until dark.”

And he nods to the door behind her.

“Oh, we’re taking turns actually. Half of the time, Stiles and Annie are out here, waiting on customers-”

“Taking their money with a sweet smile,” he says, and his smile at this, it’s almost mischievous.

One of these that her parents should have taught her to look out for.

Or, if not her parents, then her instincts at least should alert her to it, bring to her consciousness how often his eyes flick to the door, but never down at her chest.

But doesn’t seem aware of it because she’s laughing again and reaching up to twirl a loose strand of hair that’s apparently too short to fit into her ponytail.

“So, nice meeting you-”

“Lainey.”

And she taps at her name tag.

“Lainey,” he repeats, smiling, and Lainey couldn’t possibly know that the first thing he did on stepping up to the counter was sweep his gaze over her name tag and file the letters away.

Not to impress her with it, obviously.

More like he’d been gathering data, computing everything in here, from the odd color scheme to Lainey’s blue striped apron and the hand that had appeared in the serving hatch for a second, down to every single, tiny mole on it.

He seems to have seen enough because he says, “See you around, Lainey,” and then turns to the door, taking a sip from his milkshake.

As soon as he’s out of the Cafe, Lainey pivots on her heel, and almost hits the swingdoors with her face, she’s so agitated.

“Stiles! Stiles, come here – no just drop that, _quick_!”

A guy shows up in the door she’s holding open. He’s wearing an apron on which he’s currently wiping his hands, his eyes a warm brown, face a little pale, like he’s spending too much time inside.

“What’s up? Anything happen?”

“Er – yeah?,” she says and motions for him to step up to the counter and hurry, for God’s sake. “I just met the man of my dreams, that’s what happened!”

And she’s pointing out the window, directing Stiles’ gaze at the guy in the leather jacket in the parking lot a little way off to the right, car only half visible in front of the window. He’s bending down, reaching into the passenger seat, probably to put his milkshake down and, like that, turning his back to them so all they can see is-

“Oh – my God, that ass! I’m gonna die, I swear, like, _right_ here, right now.”

Stiles is smiling at her.

“Calm down, Lainey. It’s just some dude in a leather jacket and a fancy-ass car.”

“You mean like – the dude in a _black_ leather jacket in his fancy-ass _Camaro_ who picks you up every evening?”

“Wh-what?”

“Yeah,” she says, grinning. “Yeah, I caught on to that. And that he’s friggin’ gorgeous like hell, too, so – I’d ask you to grace my hopeless obsession with a little more empathy.”

She’s staring out the window again, right hand clutched over her heart.

“But you can’t get all the handsome guys, Stiles and this one, oh, my God, he’s an _angel_ ,” she says and sighs. “And guess what – he’s from Beacon Hills, too, and he’s here to study. Like – how crazy is that?”

Stiles turns to her, frowning.

“Beacon Hills? What did you say his name was?”

“I don’t knooooow,” she says, looking out the window yearningly. “He didn’t say. But he said he’s new here and – maybe he’s a freshman like us? Just think about it, meeting this dude on campus somewhere – God, I _hope_ so – but you should have _seen_ him, Stiles! Like he walked straight out of a 50s movie. Totally gorgeous, oh my God, and he was _so_ flirting with me.”

“I don’t want to disappoint you, but that might just be his go to move to get girls. You should be careful.”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” she says and tries to slap his shoulder but Stiles moves away quickly, out of her reach, and she rolls her eyes, breathes out “Weirdo,” but with a smile, like she’s teasing him.

Before she can say anything else, the door chimes, announcing new customers.

“I gotta get back,” Stiles is saying but he doesn’t move.

While Lainey is turning to welcome a young couple and listing milkshake flavors the way she did before, only now she’s not stuttering or blushing, Stiles is staring out the window.

The car is still sitting outside in the late afternoon sun, its orange-red bleeding into the yellow sunset sky behind it. He can’t see the driver’s seat and front of the car because there’s about three feet of wall before the next window starts, but he does catch a glimpse of his back, of the red leather jacket.

And it makes Stiles think, roots him on the spot even though he’s needed in the kitchen.

But then, today’s shift is almost over anyway.

 

 

 

Derek will be picking him up in an hour or so, drive him to therapy. It had been one of his dad’s conditions for Stiles moving away so soon, three months before his first semester. That he go to counseling four times a week, at least until uni started.

And the sheriff really only let him go because Stiles’ therapist in Beacon Hills had advised it would be best if Stiles were removed from the scene of his trauma for a little while at least, only as long as he’s still having flashbacks. As long as he’s still suffering from acute PTSD – so Stiles hadn’t told her he’d be getting a job. He knew she’d say it would be too fatiguing but it helped Stiles to feel functional. Plus, he could really use the money, so... why not, right?

Stiles is okay with his dad driving down to visit every week and Scott ended up at the same university as Stiles, so – it all worked out fine, you might say.

Only sometimes at night, when Stiles is laying wide awake in his bed, staring ahead into the darkness, he wonders what it is that’s missing.

Then he’s checking whether it’s the sounds – but, no, everything is alright with the nightly silence, so, what is it then?

He figured, maybe it’s just his life that’s absent.

Not right yet.

Everyone is treating him with kid gloves – at least everyone who knows what happened to Stiles, especially Derek. He’s being so dull and careful with him, it’s maddening sometimes.

He’s very adamant about not touching Stiles, too, if he can help it, not just because the sheriff told him point blank that if he did he’d shoot him for real and Derek had nodded approvingly.

It’s also because, for some reason, Stiles can’t _bear_ being touched.

He hopes it’ll pass because it can be annoying and, sometimes, he’s downright desperate. How is he to walk down crowded university corridors, sit in lecture halls, or stand in the grocery line ever again? But he’s working on it.

Tiny steps.

When he looks at this car that he’s never seen before, a warm and familiar feeling is washing over him and his heart – it’s beating loudly but not because he’s having a panic attack, for the first time in months.

It’s because he can _feel_ it being there, that thing he’s been missing, like it’s resurfaced again all of a sudden, as if it materialized around him, and when he walks back into the kitchen ten minutes after Lainey called him out, it’s still there and he doesn’t know why or what to do with it, the flutter of his heart, the odd excitement.

Harbingers of a new beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to an avid reader (/an-avid-reader) for suggesting that I post this as a separate work even though it's rather short. Thank you also to kaleidos_cope for sharing that fateful pic of Cody Christian with me. And of course, thank you to ALL OF YOU who have been reading and commenting and bearing with me through all the confusion and incoherent sentences <3


End file.
